Page 48 of Vasmora

“You cannot ask me to do this,” the woman argued, as if she’d already been briefed on what was coming.

“I can, and I will. My charnelyths are due to lay eggs soon. Believe me when I say, you’d rather not volunteer yourself for that.” Waving a hand toward Melantha’s dress, she smiled. “They’d find your attire to be riveting.”

Melantha’s bottom lip quivered. “It requires blood.”

Blood? For what? Still, I couldn’t piece together what they were scheming, but I didn’t dare ask and give Loyce the satisfaction of knowing I felt unsettled by it all.

Loyce reached into the tunic she wore and pulled out a small vial attached to a chain around her neck. “I have carried this for well over a century now. My most prized possession, you could say.” She held it out to Melantha, who lowered her head, only sparing me a minimal glance as she took the offering.

Dark red and opaque, the fluids it held stuck to the glass. Blood. Prized possession.

Melantha–a blood drinker who I’d seen take on the appearance of the guard back at the woods.

A nauseating cold expanded behind my ribs as I watched Melantha uncork the bottle and stare at it a moment, a look of contemplation tightening her brows.

“Don’t,” I said quietly from where I stood. “Don’t do it.”

Her gaze flickered to me, then back to the bottle.

Loyce sighed. “Offal, would you be so kind as to light the pit torches?”

The moment the slave standing off to the side set into motion, Melantha quickly tipped back the vial.

“No!” I lurched forward, but it was too late.

She’d already swallowed it back.

She crossed the room to where Dravien had been strapped to the contraption, and despite his writhing and squirming, she managed to place a hand against his chest. “Ilmehi ul fiteh.”

I somehow understood that to mean he to me becomes thee.

Light bloomed from her palm, and Dravien’s spine snapped straight, red smoke crawling over his face like a living creature, consuming him to the extent that I couldn’t see him through the thick haze. The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing a new face.

My heart stalled. Knees buckled, my body held upright only by the guard still gripping my arm.

Tears wavered in my eyes as I stared back at Zevander, riddled with Dravien’s horrific wounds. The swollen eye. The torn ear. The bruises and beatings. Yet, every detail of Zevander had been perfectly replicated in such a way that I could hardly be swayed to believe it wasn’t him.

And the sight of him. Gods, the sight of him nearly broke me. My mind refused to replace him with Dravien. Even though my own eyes had witnessed the change.

He blurred behind a shield of tears.

Not Zevander.

“Hello, Handsome.” Loyce stepped toward him, running her hands over his exposed abdomen. “I cannot tell you how many nights I’ve dreamed of having you strung up like this again. At my mercy.” She spoke as if she believed it was Zevander.

I looked to Melantha, who shook her head.

“Let us begin, shall we?” She waved to one of the nearby guards, and with a curt nod, he stepped forward and threw his hand out to the side. From his palm unfurled a blaze of orange and blue, flickering and wavering as a long thread of flame.

A fierce pounding beat against my ribs, the air in my lungs waning.

The guard drew back and struck fast, the flame lashing across flesh in an orange streak that split the skin open and left the edges charred like cooked meat.

When Dravien cried out in Zevander’s voice, my body shook, numb with shock.

“Again,” Loyce said, her voice tinged with awe.

The guard struck again.