Page 242 of Vasmora

Wringing my hands, I stared down at the crying baby swaddled in the bassinet. His tiny face held features that I instantly recognized: the wisps of silken, black hair curled at his ears, silver irises speckled by flecks of molten gold and framed by those handsome hooded eyes that left little doubt who his father was.

An inexplicable urge compelled me to lift him into my arms, but the way he calmed once tucked into the crook of my elbow was anything but instinct for me.

“Perfect, isn’t he?”

The sound of Zevander’s voice sent a chill down my spine, and I turned to see him standing behind me, not a trace of the scars that contracted certain parts of his skin, or the black veins that shadowed half his face. Bright blue eyes that didn’t match those of the child in my arms stared back at me. The face I imagined he was meant to have, and yet, there was no warmth or familiarity in the flawless mask he wore. “I can’t tell you what it does to me, seeing you hold our son.”

The baby cooed, his eyes twinkling as he stared up at me with a look of pure adoration.

Brows tight, I shook my head and held him outstretched. “He isn’t mine.”

The baby’s face crinkled, and he let out a wailing cry.

I was no stranger to the anguished cries of children, having come from a world that banished their mothers and fathers to death, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, his tore at my heart.

Zevander gently pushed the child back toward me. “He is yours. And mine. We are a family.”

Family. The word hooked itself in my heart, tugging at me. While I’d grown up knowing the love of family, I’d never given thought to having my own. The only mother I’d ever known was Agatha, and she’d been far from a fitting example of that bond.

“He needs you,” Zevander urged. “He’s yours.”

Mine.

I dared to imagine such a thing, watching him grow into his personality. I wondered if his cheeks would dimple, like his father’s, when he smiled. If he’d steal away and read books, like me. If he’d be bold and fearless, or quiet and reserved.

Stop, my mind chided. “I have to return. He isn’t real.”

Zevander’s eyes darkened, his smile faded. “He is real. And the only way you’re returning home is by throwing him into that flame.” His gaze flitted toward the baby and back. “You think you can do that? Hear him scream in the flames?”

Tears wavered in my eyes. “No,” I whispered. “That can’t be the only way.”

“It is the only way.” Tears shone in Zevander’s eyes. “And I’m begging you, don’t do it. Stay with me.”

“Maevyth! Listen to me!” Zevander’s voice thundered around me, not spoken by the man who stood before me, but from somewhere distant. Like the echo of a dream.

I peered up at the dark sky, where stars twinkled overhead. The two moons had almost merged into one perfect sphere in the sky. “Zevander?”

Arms gripped my shoulders, breaking my attention. “I’m here. Right here.”

Still holding the baby, I jerked my shoulders free from his grasp and stepped back. “You’re not Zevander. Not my Zevander.”

“I am yours. Don’t do this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Look around. There is no plague here. No death. Just the three of us. Forever.” His gaze slid to the baby and back. “Could you walk away from your own son? Could you abandon him, the way your mother abandoned you?”

Through a blur of tears, I shook my head. “My mother didn’t abandon me. I was stolen from her.”

“And you know what it’s like to be motherless. Is that what you want for him? Your son?”

The tears broke free down my cheeks, offering a clear view of the baby in my arms. Nestled in the crook of my elbow, he slept peacefully, his eyelids fluttering in dreams, face like an angel’s. I stroked a finger across his brow and lifted him just enough to breathe in his delicately sweet scent, like the milky warmth of moonlilies. “Mine,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Zevander breathed and stepped closer. “Imagine it. No pain. No suffering. Only love.”

I glanced around at the surrounding darkness. A dream world. Cold and lifeless. “This isn’t real.” My attention shifted back to the baby in my arms. Too perfect. “He is not real.”

He is real. He smells real. He sounds real. He feels real!

“You don’t believe that. You want to protect him. If you leave, he’ll be at the mercy of monsters.”

A deep, guttural sound emerged from behind me, and I spun to see the empty darkness from before had shifted into the eerie forest where I’d first arrived. Peering from behind a tree, two eyes glowed red, and I could just make out the dark silhouette of something hunched there.