Page 148 of Vasmora

None of the men seemed alarmed, but stepped aside, allowing her passage. Once close enough, Lothare gathered her hands in his, pulling her in for an intimate embrace.

“There is word that The Black Pestilence has arrived. Strange creatures roam the city. It seems King Jeret has gone mad.” Her words arrived clipped and broken by panting breaths.

“Mad?” A look of concern tightened Lothare’s expression. “How so?”

“Villagers described a man who’d turned creature. There’s rumor King Jeret allowed the monster to bite his arm.”

“He became infected?” Lothare pried.

The woman shook her head. “The monster collapsed. Whatever was in his blood came out of him. They believe Jeret is their savior. That he has some power against the pestilence.”

“The mortucrux, I’d bet,” one of the men behind them said.

Mortucrux. I recalled the panacea that Melantha had mentioned. The very reason she’d kidnapped the prince and turned him over to King Jeret. I’d thought it some sort of healing elixir, but the same thing had happened when the spider had bitten me and collapsed, spilling black ooze from its mouth.

“I feel such uncertainty.” Fear strangled the woman’s voice, and her arm trembled as she flipped her hand and placed something in his. “If you should find yourself without choice …” Brows pulled tight, she shook her head.

“Come with me,” he urged, planting a kiss to her cheek.

Shuttering her eyes, she pressed her forehead to his. “I won’t leave my mother. The alehouse is sheltering a few of the city’s destitute. I can’t abandon them.”

Her worry echoed my own from months ago, when, faced with a similar dilemma, I’d refused to leave my sister behind. Knowing Zevander would’ve stayed, no matter the cost, left a strange hollow in my chest.

He brushed her hair aside. “Are you in need of anything?”

“Only that the gods are kind and you’ll return.”

“I promise this.” When he pressed a kiss to her lips, I looked away, the sight of their goodbye rousing a chill of unease, and I slid my hand into Zevander’s. He gave a reassuring squeeze, and I inhaled a deep breath to calm my nerves.

The woman broke from the embrace and strode back toward her horse, Lothare tucking away whatever she’d given him into his pocket.

“May the gods show you favor,” she said, and after mounting her steed, rode off into the woods.

Lothare gave a nod toward one of the wolves, and it bounded after her. A somber expression shadowed his eyes as he trailed his gaze over his men. “Prepare the horses. It’s time to head out.”

* * *

Zevander’s arm banded tight around my waist, the reins held loose in his other hand, as the horse plodded us along through the forest.

“What is the mortucrux?” I asked.

Before Zevander could speak, one of the men riding beside us answered, “Rumored to be Grymswood sap.” The voice belonged to the same man who’d imprisoned us back at the cave.

“Grymswood. The tree in the Crussurian Trench.” The one I’d seen in the book Dolion had given me. Allura had once told me it housed an imprisoned priestess.

One of the other men laughed. “Nothing but stories parents would tell their children to frighten them. Behave, or we’ll throw you into the Crussurian Trench and the Grymswood will eat your soul!”

What a horrible threat. “If not sap, what do you suppose the mortucrux might be?” I pried.

“Haven’t decided if I believe the rumors about King Jeret, at all.” The mercenary glanced over his shoulder, toward the rear of the group where Lothare followed, trailed by the wolves behind him. “Be nice if the bastard was dead.”

“Couldn’t be so lucky,” another one of the men sneered. “Probably swallowed the same elixir as Loyce.”

Loyce.

A slithering cold crept beneath my skin at the sound of her name. As if sensing my tension, Zevander’s grip tightened. I hated that she had that effect on me. That a name could incite so much dread.

“Heard you managed the task,” the man beside us kept on.