Page 203 of Vasmora

“It would’ve been far more honorable for you to die there,” Zevander said coldly.

“Like Ravezio?” he snarled.

“Yes.” Zevander’s jaw damned near cracked from the tension. “Like Ravezio.”

Face pulled to a grimace, Kazhimyr looked away. “He died for you. None of us would’ve been there, if not for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to cross over for me. I didn’t need your saving.”

A sardonic laugh flew out of him. “You are a heartless prick sometimes. I think your blood is colder than mine,” he sneered.

Zevander’s stare remained fixed. “Was it Rykaia you came for? Or Dolion? Who does Cadavros want next?”

“I don’t feel infected. Do I look like one of those monstrous fucks to you?”

He didn’t. But neither had Aleysia.

“The plague takes many forms. You should’ve told me what happened.”

A more familiar expression flickered across his face, as though the real Kazhimyr was somewhere inside, fighting for a voice. “I know. I am the reason Dorjan is dead. The reason Pestilios has crossed.” Kazhimyr dropped to his knees. “Kill me. I’m begging you.”

Zevander clenched his jaw, his hands itching for blood. He’d known Kazhimyr a long time, but that didn’t abate the longing to slide his blade across the bastard’s throat. The Kazhimyr he’d known most of his life, the one of sound mind and conscience, would’ve stayed far from Eidolon. He’d have taken his own life before putting anyone else at risk.

The man standing before him held nothing more than remnants of his old friend. Perhaps he should’ve entertained his request–the only moment in their conversation he was certain it’d been Kazhimyr speaking.

Not yet, though. Even as impulsive as he could be, Zevander recognized he was far too exhausted to make that decision right then.

“I’ll decide what to do with you in the morning.” He nodded toward Raivox. “If he leaves this circle, he’s at your disposal.”

The Corvugon chuffed as if he understood.

Without another word, Zevander made his way back inside, leaving Kazhimyr out in the cold.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

MAEVYTH

My eyes flicked into darkness, confusion clouding my vision as the image of Loyce clawed at the back of my head, and I trailed my gaze over my surroundings.

Black silk bedding. Ornate wooden door. Weapons. Table. Mask.

Zevander.

I twisted and found him staring down through the window, his eyes unfocused. As I sat up from the bed, he turned toward me, offering a quick appraisal, before shifting his attention back toward the window.

Frowning, I gathered the sheets around me and pushed to the edge of the bed.

Without looking at me, Zevander threw out a hand. “Don’t let him see you,” he said.

“Who?” I slid to my feet, padded quietly toward him, then ducked low, only peeking through a small gap in the curtain.

Encircled by flames, Kazhimyr stared up at the window from the ground below, Raivox and the other two Corvugons pacing a circle outside of the fire.

“How long has he been there?” I asked.

“Since about midnight.”

“He slept in the yard the whole night?” I caught a glimpse of Zevander’s tight fists, the aggression in his posture.