Page 89 of Vasmora

Zevander didn’t resist. He pushed to his feet, and the beast let out a growl, warning him that if he so much as breathed wrong, it would tear him open.

Using his head to point, the stranger directed him down the hillside. “And for gods’ sake, don’t try anything. These wolves are merciless bastards when it comes to tearing a body apart. Absolutely revolting. I just don’t want to see that.”

A talker.

Sloppy, though he could afford to slip with such a shrewd beast at his side.

With Maevyth’s hand in his, Zevander took the lead down the path as directed. The stranger followed after them, with the wolf prowling a few steps behind him, seemingly unbothered, the few times Zevander glanced over his shoulder at them. Through the trees and underbrush, they trekked along the slope of the hill, until they entered the camp.

Eyes tracked their movements, the faces of those who stared covered, every one of them dressed indistinguishable from the other. Only their heights and builds set them apart, but even those were fairly close.

As they observed him, Zevander clocked their movements, hand placements and numbers, all while scanning over the camp in search of the bloodbinder.

At the far end sat the largest of the tents, but they passed it for a narrow path that led to a dark cave hidden by shrubs. The strong stench of wet dog told him it might’ve been a wolf den at one time, but aside from an unlit firepit in its center, the space seemed empty. Cold.

When they reached the cave’s mouth, the wolf still at the stranger’s heels, the man waved his hand, urging them inside.

“What is this?” Zevander asked, refusing to take one step.

“Consider it a lobby of sorts, until we can determine whether, or not, you’re gonna be a problem.”

Zevander scanned as much of the lightless interior as he could see, not finding any sign of a threat. He stepped toward it and sensed movement, turning to see the man grip Maevyth’s arm.

“Would you prefer to be separated?” he asked her.

Muscles rigid, Zevander felt his scorpion slink across his back. “Let her go.”

The wolf growled and reared back on its haunches, as if preparing to attack.

The stranger released her arm. “Calm yourself. I’ve no intentions with her. Just making sure she’s safe with you.”

She slid her hand in Zevander’s. “I want to stay with him.”

“Very well.” He flicked his hands, eyes falling toward Zevander’s satchel. “Let’s have it. Weapons too.”

Keeping his eyes on the man, Zevander handed off his sword and daggers, smug in the knowledge that his most deadly weapon ran through his veins.

The man flipped open the satchel and shoved his hand inside, frowning when he must’ve realized what it held. Slowly he withdrew the cold, blue hand once belonging to General Loyce, then quickly dropped it back inside the bag. After a bit more rifling, he tossed it back to Zevander. “You can keep that one,” he said. “In you go.”

Zevander stepped inside, a faint tingle across his skin telling him something wasn’t right. Just as Maevyth followed after him, he quickly spun around and pressed a palm to the wavering surface of a ward. “Fuck.”

“A barrier?” she asked.

“So it seems.”

On the other side, the masked stranger made his way back down the path, but the wolf remained, settling alongside the entrance of the cave.

Zevander twisted back to the firepit and shot a blast of black flame toward it, lighting whatever small bit of kindling still remained there. The light illuminated dark walls, and he ventured further, searching for an exit, an animal, or any other prisoner they might’ve kept there.

Around a cluster of tall boulders, he found the back wall of the cave. Nothing but bones and rocks littering the ground.

“So, we just … allow them to capture us? That’s the plan?” She was frustrated, undoubtedly exhausted and in need of rest.

Zevander could understand that, but what she didn’t realize was the magnitude of shit they might’ve stepped in. “I’m fairly certain we’ve stumbled upon Kael Vexmoor’s camp.”

“Do you know him?”

“I knew his sister many years ago. Vaelora.”