Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ZEVANDER

N ight had fallen, as Zevander rode up to the edge of Hagsmist forest, from where three of the king’s calvary guarding it already galloped across the open field toward him. Thanks to his half-mask and hooded cowl making him look like a thief, they’d undoubtedly draw their weapons without bothering to ask his intentions.

They probably thought him mad, or drunk. After all, no one attempted to get so near to the forest, unless they’d completely lost their senses, which was why the guard was light.

While no one had ever endeavored to enter the disease-ridden mortal lands, if anyone were to be so ambitious, they’d be punished by execution per the king’s decree.

On the mere threat of attack, the flames inked into Zevander’s flesh stirred. Had he been any other Aethyrian, the calvary could apprehended him with ease, as their powers exceeded most and could’ve easily incapacitated any other trespasser.

Unfortunately for them, Zevander wasn’t any other trespasser.

The men slowed as they approached, and before they could lift their hands to seize him with magic, his flames lashed out, winding around each of them. The searing sound of their burning flesh punctuated the awful stench of sizzling organs.

He fucking hated that smell.

Two of the men collapsed from their bucking horses that took off in the opposite direction. The guards convulsed on the ground, writhing and grunting, because the flame denied them a voice to scream. The third man tumbled from his horse, falling to the ground on a hard thunk , his body paralyzed with the pain that Zevander imagined felt like hot steel against the skin. While his comrades blackened, their bodies cooked alive from the inside out, his body merely blazed a swollen red.

Once the two had finally succumbed to the flame, Zevander picked through the soot for the bloodstones left behind. Death by magic often left a residue, an aura, easily identifiable by the most skilled forensic mage, and burning to ashes ensured no evidence. But the presence of bloodstones would hint at demutomancy, which would surely launch an extensive investigation. A potential headache if the king tasked him to assist in hunting down a culprit.

He strode back to where the third man lay squirming on the ground, attempting to cry out through clenched teeth, the flame only allowing for a quiet groan. “I’ve spared you in exchange for your silence. Do you understand?”

With what strength the guard could muster, he nodded. The flames receded, exiting through his skin, offering the man some relief. They took the form of black scorpions that circled him, hissing and clicking their pincers.

“Be very still,” Zevander warned as he checked for the dagger at his hip. “They’re not fond of fast movement.” He stalked toward the adjacent woods, leaving the scorpions to watch the guard.

A shield of white mist rolled over the floor of the forest, Zevander’s boots invisible in the thick vapor. At the back of his neck, he felt what was left of the moon sigil of his bloodline flare, when the cool silvery rays struck the marking, sending a tingle down his spine. The Solassions had attempted to cut it off during the years he’d been enslaved, in order to stunt his power, not knowing at the time that it’d already been stunted by his cursed blood. Burned away for the power of sablefyre that he hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of understanding.

They’d failed to remove it entirely, though. Even scarred and mutilated, it still absorbed the light.

Through the haze of fog, a high-pitched giggle zipped past his ear, and he turned in time to see the flutter of wings. His eyes adjusted in the darkness, and he could make out a small Spirityne–annoying little creatures often found in the woods. Small as a sparrow, they appeared harmless, but their vicious nature made them aggressive and dangerous, and their teeth carried an agonizing poison that was said to cause hallucinations. It was rare to see them when winter approached. Curiosity must’ve drawn it out of its hiding spot in the trees. Fortunately, it flew off, or he’d have skewered and charred it as a burnt snack for the catallys—nocturnal creatures that looked like a cross between a cat and a hawk and preyed on the Spiritynes.

An archway stood in the distance, its pale blue, glassy ward shimmering like liquid in its center. Only the blood of the seven, those he’d already killed for their bloodstones, could’ve passed through freely without a spell, as it was their ancestral blood magic that had crafted the Umbravale. Anyone else would’ve risked falling over the cliff that separated Hagsmist from the mortal lands. An abyssal trench between the two worlds, bridged only by the Umbravale. Some believed Nethyria resided at the bottom of the miles-deep crevice.

No one had ever been mad enough to confirm by venturing down there, though.

Zevander reached into the pocket of his leathers for the small scroll that Dolion had given him. He raised his palm to the ward and spoke the words inked on the small parchment.

“Zi da’dignio, septmiusz me liberih iteriusz.” If I am worthy, the seven will grant me free passage.

The ward hummed and flickered, and he exhaled a breath, then pushed his hand past the watery barrier. A mild vibration shook his muscles as he stepped through the arch, and to his relief, instead of falling to his death, found himself in a small clearing encircled by thorny bushes. Keen eyes scanning over his surroundings, he strode toward the bushes, unbothered by the thorn-covered branches that scratched at his impenetrable leathers and crushed beneath his boots.

On the other side stood a forest that mirrored the one from which he’d come.

A howling sound echoed around him, and he clicked his tongue to zero in on the source of it. The image of a wolf took form in his mind, though the mortal variety seemed to be far smaller than what Zevander had come to know in his world. He kept on, senses alert.

The hum of wings buzzed past his ear, and he searched the darkness for the source.

It zipped past him again, and Zevander’s black flame coiled and struck like a snake, holding the nefarious little beast captive, while it squealed and chirped and trilled, its teeth snapping at the vaporous flame. Spirityne. Strange to see one on that side of the Umbravale. He tipped his head, studying its trembling stick-like body that appeared like an actual twig, with a humanoid face and tattered black wings, making it almost entirely camouflaged in the surrounding wood. Had Zevander wanted, he could’ve breached the protective halo of magic that kept the creature from burning alive right then. Instead, he looked away, releasing the creature, and it flew off chirping, likely warning other Spiritynes.

Zevander strode on, and at the crunch of something beneath his boot, he paused and reached down into the mist. He lifted a broken and decayed human skull, his senses labelling it as at least a century old. Tossing it aside, he kept on, more crunching beneath his boots in what must’ve been a feeding ground.

He walked what he estimated to be two furlongs before noticing a structure ahead–another archway that shimmered like the first he’d passed through. This one made of bones and twisted wood. As Zevander made his way in that direction, a cold tingle brushed across the back of his neck, his instincts telling him there was something hidden amongst the trees. Watching him. A scan of the forest showed only the dark trees looming above the mist, and the dappled moonlight illuminating the bats flitting through their canopies.

He strode on, until he arrived at the ancient structure—the entrance from the forest to the mortal world.

Gaze trailing over the archway of bone and wood, he spied a spattering of black, as if it’d been burned into the structure, and ran his finger across it. The spatters sizzled and smoked and slid into his palm like black snakes. They gathered into small puddle, and the black faded for red. He closed his palm over it and opened it to a solid red stone. Skinny silver lines appeared as small cracks in the hard surface, a characteristic he hadn’t seen before. His mind wound back to the conversation with Dolion at the tavern. “A stone with silver markings.”

The clues leading to his quarry always revealed themselves, somehow, and Zevander trusted blood above everything else.

He lifted the tiny sphere up into the moon’s light, examining the strange coloring and patterns, and felt a hum of energy vibrating across his palm as he held it. Sensing power in the blood was nothing new for the Letalisz, but the oddly pleasurable intensity that rippled beneath his skin, trembling across his bones like prey in a spider’s web, struck him as foreign. Entirely unexpected.

Tongue wet with the urge to lick the salty stone, he screwed his eyes shut to the voice in his head that chimed Taste . Consuming blood was like playing with the devil’s flame. A reckless indulgence that led to madness, as blood could be a very powerful aphrodisiac. He quickly tucked the stone away in his leathers.

A shimmer across his eye drew his hand to the ward. As he ran his finger across, tiny electrical impulses tickled his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined his hand passing through. When he opened them, the barrier enveloped at his wrist.

He stepped through.

Once on the other side, Zevander surveyed the open field of frost that glistened like diamonds, the scattered trees, and nocturnal animals scampering in the dark with eyes glowing. Clouds of white smoke drifting up from chimneys.

Life. So much unexpected life.

From a young age, he’d been taught the mortal world was a dead and barren wasteland. A place no Aethyrian would ever dare to venture. Above him, stars twinkled around a single crescent moon. The air, though crisp and cold, felt dry as it breezed over the exposed half of his face. Desiccated, like an aging world, but certainly not a dead one.

In the distance stood a dark cottage, and he spied a window near its roof.

An archway of bones seen through a window.

A glance back at the archway showed it to be in the path of the window’s view.

He stuck out a hand, calling upon his powers, and across the frosty ground, a trail of fallen blood glowed red–the drops leading toward that same cottage across the dirt road. He strode toward it, following the blood path to the entrance, and through the door that creaked on worn hinges. The lower level stood empty and quiet. Up the staircase, he trod lightly, his boots making nary a sound over the aging wood. The blood trail stopped at what appeared to be a bathing suite–one far less elaborate than his own, back at the keep. It held a simple tub, and chamber pot with a pull string, the kind one would find in The Hovel. He kept on down the corridor of closed doors, and halfway toward the end of it, he felt a vibration in his pocket as the stone radiated warmth across his thigh.

The strange sensation seemed to heighten, the deeper he ventured, until he stopped before a door at the end of the hallway. Opening it gave a light squeal of the hinges and revealed another staircase. When he reached the top, he found two beds across the room from one another. Mingled with a strong floral scent was something that hit the back of his throat, stiffening his jaw. Like sweet oranges.

A dizzying weakness swept over him, and he stumbled back a step, his senses overwhelmed.

Fucking hells …. What in the gods was wrong with him?

From the ceiling, dangled small white sachets decorated in flowers. Perhaps the source of the scent. He drew one to his face, nose crinkling at the strong, spicy herbs that didn’t carry so much as a whiff of that orange scent.

As he set his sights on the bed directly across from him, the stone in his pocket flared with warmth. He shook his head of the strange vertigo and crossed the room, coming to a stop alongside his victim’s bed. Nestled in the blankets, the creature slept soundly, its body rising and falling with easy breaths. Beneath the delicious orange scent that watered his mouth, something earthy loomed. A wicked odor, like brimstone, and he rounded the bed for the other side, nearest the window. On the floor, tucked halfway beneath the bed’s frame, he found a black object and lifted it up to the light.

An egg, it seemed, but not one he recognized. The scales on the surface suggested some kind of raptor. He’d seen similar eggs in Draconysia in the north, when he’d crossed over from Solassios. When told they were drake eggs, Zevander had made the mistake of stealing three of them, not realizing he was committing himself to raising the damned things.

Resting another hand over the top of the egg sent the black flame over the surface, which glowed a bright purple, and the silhouette of the tiny creature cocooned inside, squirming and writhing, confirmed that it was alive. He glanced down at the bundle of blankets below him, and back to the egg.

Zevander carefully placed the egg on the floor. He’d be sure to take it with him, as it’d certainly be worth quite a bit in the black markets of Costelwick.

He held out his hands toward the bundled mass beneath a flowered quilt, the stone in his pocket so hot against his thigh, he let out a grunt, adjusting its position in his leathers. Curls of black flame lifted from his skin and scaled down his arm, where it gathered in his palm. He directed the flame onto his victim, letting it wind around the blankets, and at the first movement, Zevander knew the flame was heating the pathetic creature’s blood. Cooking it.

A soft but agonizing moan bled through the coverings, and Zevander frowned at the way the sound strummed his muscles. The bundle shifted, movement pulling the blankets away to reveal a face that snapped his spine straight.

Long, black hair lay strewn about her pillow and plastered to her sweaty brow. Porcelain skin that carried the soft pink of a fever. Full, bow-shaped lips, slightly parted.

Fucking beautiful.

As he pulled back the flames, he tipped his head, staring down at her. What a pity.

Like an enchanting goddess, she slept soundly, a fringe of long, black lashes fluttering against the top of her cheeks, while her body succumbed to his power. An ache stabbed his chest, as he marveled at those thick, pouty lips and gleaming skin that compelled him to touch her. That scent that clawed at his senses, urging him to put his mouth to her skin for a taste.

He’d never been so taken by one of his prey.

A sharp throb struck his groin, and he grunted, his cock pressed hard against his leathers as if it longed to climb out of his damn trousers. Frowning, he adjusted himself. Something about the girl stoked the fire in his veins, and were he not there to sear her blood to stone, he might’ve taken an interest in what she hid beneath that loose gown.

Instead, he raised his hand again, sending another blast of heat across her body, and just as before, she shifted again, raising her arm above her head to reveal a strange marking on her flesh. A feather-like scar with metallic silver accents.

As she squirmed with discomfort, her fever undoubtedly heightening, he felt a tickle at his brow. A bead of sweat dripping down his skin that, when he wiped it away, felt hot to the touch. So unusually hot, he broke concentration, and the flame in his palm fizzled.

He wiped his face across the sleeve of his tunic and held out a palm again. Focusing. Imagining the flame rushing through her veins like molten lava.

A flare of pain rippled through him, like tiny blades in his blood, and Zevander stumbled back a step.

Godspit!

Teeth grinding with frustration, he tried again, but again, he was struck with an agonizing burn beneath his skin that had him backing off.

The process normally took seconds. A quick and quiet kill, and he was ordinarily done before anyone even noticed him there. He lifted his palm yet again, eyes blazing with rage as he stared down at her sickeningly beautiful face.

An image of her head tipped back in ecstasy struck his skull, and he shook his head of the visual.

Fuck. Fuck!

His fist vibrated with the urge to punch a wall. To break him of whatever had hooked itself in his mind.

She let out another soft moan, and gods be damned, Zevander’s ordinarily steady muscles shook. The sound rattled his concentration, and the flames retreated back across his skin.

Jaw clenched hard enough to crack his teeth, he tried for the half-dozenth time. Muscles steeled, he concentrated on the flames working their way through her veins. Boiling and hardening to stone.

Nothing came forth. As if his power refused to follow his command.

It’d never failed him before. Had never hesitated to take life, however brutally Zevander had willed it.

Staring down at her, his mind silently weaved the spell that he’d never had to speak aloud, and a streak of agonizing heat wound up through his forearm. He looked down to see one of his scorpions stinging him . Retaliating on him. The cursed flame attacking him , instead!

Enraged, he roughly brushed his knuckles against the scorpion, sending it off into a cloud of black smoke, and ground his teeth at the outrage. He would kill the ridiculous mortal if it took all the power he could summon, and gods help her then.

In his fury, he caught sight of her breast through the silky fabric of her sleeping gown. His hand itched with the momentary distraction of wondering if it’d fit in his palm as perfectly as he imagined right then. He ground his teeth harder, until a flash of pain struck his skull.

She held such a purity and innocence about her, a vibrancy that taunted the darkest corners of his soul. And seven hells, he wanted to tear his own eyeballs out for noticing.

Hand still hovering over top of her, he dared himself to touch her.

One touch.

He curled his hand into a fist.

No . If he had to fuck every sexsell from then until his death, so be it. So be it!

She stretched and shifted again, her body calling to him, and a stab of pain struck his groin.

On a grunt, he bent forward, his cock throbbing with an ache that would never be sated so long as she breathed. Zevander reached for the blade at his hip. Perhaps killing her first might allow him to concentrate on her blood. With trembling hands, he held the blade at her throat. One slice. That was all it’d take.

Hundreds, he’d killed before they could so much as draw in a breath, and yet, he loomed over her like a fledgling. Like a fucking newborn assassin terrified to follow through.

She opened her eyes to reveal beautiful, pale gray irises, the color of morning skies in Wyntertide, the left marred with a streak of silver that reminded him of the moon he’d seen earlier. Deep, intelligent eyes that gave an air of youth and mischief, their cat-like shape seductively sleepy.

As they sharpened into focus, he broke from his trance.