Page 56 of Vasmora

“She wouldn’t happen to be possessed by the goddess of death, would she?” Oswin chuckled as he steered the boat windward again.

Zevander’s smile withered.

“Apologies if my joke was in poor taste.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Earlier, when you asked what it would mean if the vessel happened to be resistant to sablefyre–”

“A curious question, is all,” Zevander cut in.

“Thank the gods for that. It would seem to me anyone resistant to sablefyre would have to have undergone the ritual, like you. Unless they were born from it.”

Zevander’s frown deepened. “Born from it?”

“A descendant of Deimos, of course.”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“You survived the Emberforge ritual, and you’re asking me what’s possible?”

Zevander sneered and turned away, his mind hooked on a single thought.

How easily Maevyth wielded his flame.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MAEVYTH

Awhite mist parted for the familiar field of asphodels that glowed beneath the two full moons overhead. Ahead of me, mingling in the blossoms, sat a woman with pale skin, long black hair spilling in pools of ink around her slender shoulders. Only her naked upper half was visible, breasts jutting outward, head tipped back toward the moon. As I neared, her profile became more apparent, the details of her face intimately familiar to me.

My twin.

Hands reached up from below her, gently cupping her breasts, and my heart caught when I noticed the scorpion tattoo on the back of one. A muscled figure sat forward, clamping his lips around her breast, a tight clench gripping my stomach, as she ran her hand through his hair, closing her fist around it, while her body rocked against him. I could almost feel the sensation. Hands on my skin. The strength of his grip. The safety.

As if sensing my presence, she turned toward me, eyes glowing silver, but her face had somehow twisted into something new.

Morsana.

She smiled at me, never once slowing her pace, while Zevander sucked at her breast. The smile faded, her brows coming together to form a tight frown.

“What have you done?” she asked.

I lowered my gaze to my hands to find them covered in a shiny, chitinous skin. Long, skinny legs protruded out of me, holding me up from the ground below. I lifted my dress to find a bulbous, pulsing belly covered in black veins.

My heart pounded a rhythm of fear. No.

No!

No!

No!

Tickling at my hand snapped me out of the darkness, jolting me awake, and I opened my eyes to a torch flickering overhead. My trailing gaze landed on the man with the purple monocle, where he knelt alongside me, examining my gloved hand.

Frowning, I jerked my arm away and kicked myself backward until my spine smacked into the stone wall behind me, the chain at my ankle clanking with the movement.

“What are you doing?” I asked, heart racing in my chest fast enough that I pressed my palm there in a poor attempt to settle it.

He didn’t answer, but scratched at the metal half of his face, as if he could feel the sensation. “The binding is good. You should not be so reziztant to death. And yet, you kilt two men vith ease.”

A visual of whips striking Zevander’s body flashed through my head, and I squeezed my eyes shut, a ripple of rage and grief clashing behind my ribs. “Perhaps you’re not as smart as you think.”