Page 243 of Vasmora

Hidden. Waiting.

I held the baby tighter.

“Maevyth! Listen to me! Come back to me!” Zevander called again, and I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on his voice. Trying to pry where it might’ve come from.

A dream?

A face came to mind, one I recognized. Blazing eyes of orange and burgundy. Skinny black veins that stretched from his jaw to the corner of his eye. Scarred hands and the kind of warmth that weakened my bones. The visual was fading but I focused on it, every small detail I could remember, letting it anchor me.

“What you’re hearing is nothing but a memory.” The other Zevander held out his hand to me, flicking his fingers. “Come. Let’s go home.”

Eyes squeezed shut, I shook my head and backed up a step. “You’re not my home. This isn’t my home.” Again, I glanced down at the baby. Took in the weight of him in my arms. The warmth where his skin touched mine.

Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Or you will find yourself caught in a deadly trap.

The words of the Crone Witch clamored inside my head. All I had to do was search for the shimmer.

Find it in the shadows.

The vein blurred, my surroundings spinning fast. Too fast.

Eyes closed, I stumbled backward and clutched the baby to my chest. My stomach rose to my throat, then settled, and I opened my eyes to familiar surroundings. The four-post bed. Long, dark drapes. Weapons scattered over a wooden table.

Zevander’s room.

The scent of amberwood and oiled leather lingered on the air.

Real.

I turned toward the dark figure looming in the shadows. As he stepped into the moonlight, my heart withered at the blue eyes and scarless face. “Is this better?” he asked. “Does it feel more like home?”

The baby cooed in my arms, and I shifted my attention to his sweet face. The same silvery eyes as mine stared up at me, adoration beaming in his gaze, and an ache throbbed in my chest.

“We can be happy here, moon witch.”

Gods, his voice.

If I didn’t look at him, I’d swear it was my Zevander standing in the room with me.

“The world you know will fall to plague and famine. You will watch everyone you love suffer a slow and painful death.”

The thought of such a thing clawed at my heart, and yet, I’d seen the devastation back in the mortal lands. Inside The Rotting Tree, where villagers hung within cocoons. Food for the plague.

Tears blurred the baby’s face, and I shook my head. “You don’t know that.”

“It has been prophesied for millennia. But you don’t have to suffer the loss. Stay. Stay with me. Everything you ever dreamed is possible here.”

“Wake up, moon witch. Come back to me.” The distant echo of Zevander’s voice reached my ears.

I glanced around for him, eyes sweeping over his dark bed chamber.

“He calls to you from a dying world. Stay here, and you will know happiness.”

“You aren’t my mate,” I argued, turning my gaze to the window, beyond which the vibrancy of Eidolon’s sprawling estate glowed beneath the moonlight.

“Is it this face you desire?”

His question prompted me to look back at him, and my heart hitched. Familiar eyes stared back at me—orange and burgundy, as if I were staring into an eclipse. Black veins crawled over his jaw, up his cheek, to the corner of his eye.