Page 23 of Anathema
His patience snapped, and he swiped the glass out of her hand and chucked it against the wall, where it crashed into tiny shards.
On a huff of a laugh, she leaned back, resting her arm on the back of the couch. “Feel better? That tiny bit of liquor costs a fucking quarter keltzig.”
“Tell me now!”
“I don’t know! I fucking lost my wits and everything turned black! I don’t know his name, nor his face. It’s entirely wiped out of my head.” The rapid blinking of her eyes failed to hold back the tears welling in them. “I never forget a face. Ever. But I cannot summon a single image for who may have done this. It’s peculiar. And, to be quite honest, terrifying.”
“Pack your things and let’s go.”
Tears spilled down her cheek. “There’s nothing for me back at Eidolon, Zevander. I cannot live within those walls with the memories I carry. The pain that suffocates me every time I walk past that room.”
Though he hadn’t been present for the trauma that plagued his sister, the pangs of guilt cut him inside. Still, as empathetic as he longed to be toward her, it infuriated him to see her destroying herself on potions and tonics that so often rendered her completely unconscious. Vulnerable. Ones that chipped away at her body every time she consumed them. Ones that, if taken in just the right dosage, could easily stop her heart. “Am I carrying you, then?” he asked in a flat, unsympathetic tone.
She rubbed a hand down her face and expelled a forced breath. “Fine. I’ll go. And we will find ourselves back in this very place once I’ve grown weary of being locked away in that dreaded castle. Mere hours from now, mind you.”
“And I will be here to carry you back home.”
“You are a tyrant.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Aren’t you weary of this, Zevander? Haven’t you grown tired of watching over me like a beastly nursemaid?”
At a knock on the door, Zevander turned to see an older man, dressed in a fine brocade jacket that told him he was from the highblood neighborhood, where the wealthy resided. In one hand, he clutched a pair of shackles. In the other, a bottle of liquor undoubtedly meant to ply Rykaia. The sight of him stirred Zevander’s rage.
The stranger’s eyes seemed riveted on Zevander’s throat, where his sigil undoubtedly rippled with brewing anger.
“Zevander don’t,” Rykaia urged, but with fisted hands, her brother strode toward the door, his power lashing through him like a blazing whip.
The older man skittered off, stumbling as he made his way back down the staircase.
Zevander watched him, the fury still hammering at his muscles, and he turned to his sister. “Gather your things. Now.”
As she reached out for the black vials, he took a step toward her. “Not those.”
“I need them. I’ll be sick.”
“Leave. Them.”
“No! You’d do well to remember you’re not my father!”
Growling, Zevander strode toward her and gathered her flailing arms to lift his much smaller sister off the couch by her waist.
Stretching forward over his arm, she reached for the vials he’d denied her. “Let me go! Let me go, you tyrannical brute!” she screamed, wriggling and kicking, as he carried her down the staircase toward where Ze’Kyra waited, her long cigarette perched from the ring holder on her finger.
Zevander stopped alongside her, his patience snapping like a thread as he wrangled his sister’s arm and held it out toward the redhead. “Is this your idea of clean and safe?”
The woman’s eyes widened, then seemed to sadden as she ran a painted nail gently over the wounds.
“Release me!” Rykaia howled, squirming in his grip.
“I’m sorry, I had no idea … please believe me, Zevander. I would never put her at risk that way.”
“You will never put her at risk again. She won’t be coming back.”
“I will! I swear–” Rykaia’s words were cut short by Zevander’s palm pressed against her mouth.
“If whoever did this returns, you will let me know.” Zevander said through clenched teeth.