Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

ZEVANDER

T he potent liquor failed to numb the frustration pounding through Zevander, as he sat back in his chair, staring through the window over the vast valley of trees, to the mountains in the distance.

Hours, he’d spent training Maevyth on a single glyph. It’d take years to train her on the more powerful ones, and he didn’t have that kind of time. Who in seven hells knew when Branimir would finally snap and he’d have to take a blade to his own brother.

Or worse.

Still, Zevander couldn’t deny the joy he’d gleaned in watching her. The unwavering determination in her eyes that hardened his body in the most infuriating ways.

The door crashed open on an obnoxious clatter, and he turned to find Rykaia standing in the doorway, out of breath.

“Zevander! Come! It’s Maevyth!”

“What’s wrong?” Strange, the way every muscle locked up right then.

“Branimir has her!” Sheer terror clung to Rykaia’s voice.

Placing his drink on the desk, Zevander pushed to his feet and strode across the room. He hustled down the corridor and the staircase, to the Great Hall, and down another corridor to the dungeon staircase.

All along the way, Rykaia relayed what she’d seen, her voice growing more hysterical with every step. “I was bringing her a basin and sponge to wash, and I saw one of his spiders pull her in! Do you think he’ll hurt her?”

Zevander dared himself to imagine such a thing, the visual sending hot spears of rage through him. “No,” he said, for his sister’s sake. Once in the dungeons, he strode toward where Dolion hunched over the door.

“I attempted a paralysis spell, but he seems resistant.”

Ignoring the older man, Zevander took hold of the door handle and forced all of his muscles into the effort of lifting it. It wouldn’t budge. On a growl, he took a step back and summoned the black flame to his palm. He threw his hand out, sending the flame toward the door like a lasso that hooked onto the anchor. Against the resistance, it threw open the door on a crack of its hinges, and Zevander swiped up the mirror as he stalked toward the hole.

He lowered the mirror into Branimir’s cell, spinning it around, past the flaming sconce—to two figures sitting against the far wall. And the sound that rose up from below pierced him in the heart. A song he remembered from some distant memory he couldn’t place. An angelic voice that strummed his soul. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

In the mirror’s reflection, Branimir lay in Maevyth’s lap, as she gently stroked his face. For the first time in centuries, his brother looked completely at peace. The sight of them together stirred a deep sorrow, and something else. Jealousy? He couldn’t place the emotions. Branimir had only ever made him feel pity.

His brother tilted his head back, and on catching sight of the mirror, he let out a hiss and backed himself away from the girl.

“No, wait!” Maevyth reached out for him, as he retreated to the shadows.

Setting the mirror aside, Zevander climbed down the stairs, and when she turned toward him, he flicked his fingers. “Come.”

“No,” she said, and damn her stubborn nature and the challenge in her voice that spiked his blood. “Why is he locked down here?”

“It is his choice.”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” Branimir spoke in a raspy voice. “It is true. Go with him.”

Confused, she shifted her attention from one brother to the other. “Come with me. You don’t need to lock yourself away.”

“Maevyth,” Zevander warned. “Come. Now.”

When she didn’t move at his command, Zevander sent forth a blast of power that lifted her from the ground.

Branimir snarled from the corner where he cowered.

“Stay,” Zevander growled back. “Or I will send a thousand poisonous shocks to your heart.” The moment the words slipped from his lips, he regretted them. It’d been a long time since he’d threatened his brother that way.

He placed Maevyth carefully to her feet and urged her to come to him.

She gave one glance back to Branimir then made her way toward the ladder, not bothering to spare Zevander a glance as she climbed up.

Sighing, Zevander followed after her and, once out of the cell, closed the door, replacing the chain. “You will sleep in one of the rooms in the tower.”

“Who is he?”

“Our brother,” Rykaia answered for him. “Branimir.”

“Why would you …. Why would you lock him down there? That’s … cruel.”

“You don’t know him, or what he’s capable of,” Rykaia snapped.

“Rykaia, perhaps you might give us a minute and clean up the shattered porcelain.” Zevander’s voice remained calm, in spite of the rage and adrenaline coursing through him. It was then it occurred to him that something else pulsed through his veins, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had him feeling so unsettled. Beyond jealousy. Something deeper. Darker.

Possessive.

Seeing Branimir lying in her lap had scrambled his thoughts to an irritating muddle of anger and resentment.

“Fine. I told you this wasn’t a good idea, having her down here.” Rykaia spun back down the corridor, to where the broken basin lay shattered in front of Maevyth’s cell.

Dolion followed after her, leaving Zevander and Maevyth standing over the locked door.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

Zevander hung the mirror back on the hook. “We share the same curse.” He caught his reflection in the mirror, realizing in his rush to the dungeon, he hadn’t bothered to cover his face.

“But you … you don’t look like him.”

“Branimir went through the ritual when he was much older. I was a baby and didn’t suffer as many side effects.”

“But you have some,” she said, having clearly noticed the gash across his face and the grotesque veins pouring out of it.

“Yes. It’s possible his fate will be my own.”

“Why keep him down there?” Her voice held an accusing tone, and though he couldn’t blame her for it, it nettled him just the same.

He hesitated to entertain her questions. It was none of her business, after all. She had been the one to venture where she hadn’t been invited. But for reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t like her seeing him in that light. It troubled him. “He wishes to hide himself away. It’s not my choice.”

“How does he eat? How does he live down there?”

“His creatures provide for him.”

She huffed, glancing back toward the door. “I think I’d lose my senses, if I were trapped in that dark place every day. But if it’s his choice …”

“Why did you go down there?” he asked through clenched teeth, a fresh anger pulsing through him.

“I was led … by a huge spider who left a trail of trinkets, including the key.”

The spiders had grown clever, it seemed. Luring her either independently, or by Branimir’s command, he couldn’t say. For what, though? “The desire to find a cure and let him live out his remaining years in peace is fading on the horizon.”

“You’re saying it isn’t possible to cure him?”

Zevander wanted to laugh at the irony of her question, that the cure to his affliction was standing there, inquiring about it. He didn’t bother to voice that, though, for fear that she might’ve offered herself up right then.

“I’m sorry if I sounded like I was accusing.” Gaze lowered, she nibbled on her bottom lip, insufferably beautiful with her annoying little habits that seized his attention and left him wondering what she tasted like. If her lips were sweet, like berries, or bitter, like his liquor. “I thought–”

“I know what you thought. As I said, you’ll sleep in the upper level from now on. And you will leave him be.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He’s killed before.”

“Innocents?”

The visual Zevander had been given many years ago slipped through his thoughts, of his brother ripping apart the Solassion marauders who’d come for his mother and sister, the blood and gore of their bodies torn into like a wild animal had ravaged them. “No.”

“Then, that would make him far less dangerous than you, by my calculations.”

“I suppose.”

She wasn’t wrong in her assumptions. Zevander had killed many times without question, or remorse. Didn’t matter who, or why. If the king had ordered it, he’d carried out those orders efficiently and swiftly. He’d even tried to kill her once and perhaps that made Branimir less of a threat.

“So, how am I safer being closer to you than here?”

“Because I’m no longer asking. Now, if you’d prefer to sleep outside with–”

She set her hands to her hips, her frown deepening to something she probably hoped was vicious and terrifying. He found her oddly arousing and adorable at the same time. “Are you ever going to stop using the vicious fyredrakes against me?” she asked.

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll sleep in the upper level. On the condition that you let me bring him food and sing to him.”

Who was this strange creature?

As much as it had always hurt Rykaia to stay away, she’d avoided Branimir out of fear. Though, in fairness, she’d also seen him at his most violent. “You’re not the least bit frightened of him?”

“Well, yes. Of course. But that’s not his fault.”

He didn’t like her being alone with him, and while part of him wanted to chide the ridiculous thoughts in his head, the other insisted on refusing her request. Regardless of his mostly gentle nature, the fact was, Branimir possessed a violent strength that made him a threat. “You’d need to be accompanied.”

“Is it possible Rykaia–”

“Not Rykaia. Nor Dolion.” He jerked his head for her to follow after him, and as they passed her cell, she scampered inside for a book lying out on the bed. The one Dolion had showed him days ago, with the bony spine and silvery dragon’s eye.

“What about you?”

Zevander groaned. “You must think I have all the time in the world for you,” he grumbled. “Training and babysitting you.”

“This isn’t for me, this is for your brother. Surely, you’d make time for him.”

He ground his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re thinking about feeding me to the fyredrakes again, aren’t you? Perhaps I should meet these terrible beasts, so I can truly appreciate your threat without rolling my eyes.”

“One song,” he said in a flat tone, ignoring the way his cock lurched at her brassy comment. “That’s it.” He jerked his head and led her up the staircase to the upper level, away from his brother.

“And food … what does he like?” she asked after him.

“Meat. Raw.” He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her lips twisted in disgust, and smirked when he turned back around.

“Any chance you might have a steak on hand?”

Instead of answering, Zevander opened the door to her room.

She hesitated a moment before turning, and her eyes lit up as she took in the room that once belonged to his mother. Across the ample space stood a four-post bed, the points of which had been carved to look like spires. The inner dome of the wooden canopy held a delicate candelabra that gave off a soft glow when the curtains were drawn. Burgundy velvet covered the bed, with black silk sheets beneath. Dozens of candles stood about the room that his mother had always called dark and brimming with gloom.

Tall lancet windows overlooked the expanse of woods–the same view as that from his own chambers, seeing as he’d put her in the room just down the hall.

“This is where I will sleep?” Her voice held an air of disbelief.

“Do you find it too morose?”

“No. Not at all.” Just inside the room stood a beautifully carved wooden table with a vase full of asphodels that Magdah saw fit to change out every so often in remembrance of his mother. Maevyth caressed her thumb over one of the delicate petals. “I thought asphodels were springtime flowers.”

“Magdah keeps them in a greenhouse on the castle grounds.”

“Flowers of the afterlife.” Wearing a slight smile, she sauntered toward the window, and something about her dark figure set against the misty, aphotic view, and the candles flickering around her, as if the light longed to touch her, made his chest clench. She was beautiful.

No, beautiful was too weak a word.

She was intoxicating. Exquisitely divine.

Once again, his thoughts wound back to the moment he’d found her cradling his brother’s head, giving him the gentle caresses he’d been denied most of his life. Hands balled to tight fists, he fought the tugging in his chest. The urge to carve the image from his skull and set it aflame.

Frustrated by the peculiar reaction, he turned to leave.

“Zevander,” she said, and the sound of his name rolling off her tongue sent a chill down his spine.

He turned his head to the side, refusing to let her see the yearning that was damned near beaming in his eyes. How ridiculous he must’ve looked, a man of his strict training and discipline, pining after her like a fucking prepubescent schoolboy.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lunamiszka .”

“Do I still annoy you?” she asked.

“Endlessly.”