Page 1 of Hell's Secret Omega

Chapter 1

CYRUS

The Hellspring is ice cold.

Cyrus opens his eyes underwater to see black, the pool as dark as the eternal night of Hell itself. He tries to cry out but water rushes into his lungs, burning him from the inside out. The Hellspring fills him. It strips away his past life, his fear, his hunger, his weakness.

He drowns.

When the drowning is over, he’ll be reborn, just like he wanted.

His lungs cry out for air, but he ignores them. Torchlight from above illuminates the water around him. He puts his hand out in front of him and sees it transform. Bones crack and reform. Muscles lengthen. Skin turns silvery. Dark claws sprout on his fingers. He twists about in the water, eager to see the rest. Soon he’ll no longer be a pathetic soul scrabbling to survive in the Pit. He’ll be ademon. Powerful and feared. One of the Hollow King’s army.

Then the changes stop. Hands hook under his arms and drag him upward. Cyrus struggles against them, fighting to stay submerged in the icy water.No. It’s not done yet! He should bebigger, stronger. Demons haul him out of the Hellspring and he flops onto the pier, weak as a newborn.

“Put me back!” He drags himself to the edge.

The demon soldiers jeer. “He wants back in!”

“Get him out of here,” the captain roars. Another soldier hauls him painfully down the pier.

Cyrus wrenches himself out of the demon’s grip. The demon curses, boots scraping wood as he lunges at Cyrus, but in his panic Cyrus is faster. He tumbles over the edge of the pier. The frigid water slams into him—but instead of silence, the water fills his ears with the thunder of his own pulse and the cold rips at him. He flails, sinking instead of floating in place. Why isn’t he transforming?

For a second time, he’s yanked from the water and landed on rough wood. He coughs and gags, bringing up bile and black ichor.

“Idiot!” the demon snarls, baring his jagged teeth. “It doesn’t work like that. The King grants youonedip in the pool! Get off the pier before I give ya something to whine about.”

The demon’s boot makes painful contact with his ribs, and Cyrus spits out the last of the bitter Hellspring water. He scrambles to his feet, forcing his weak muscles to cooperate.

“What happened?” he chokes out.

“Your transformation,” the demon sneers. “Pathetic, but what else can you expect from the tournament these days? Welcome to the Court, junior.”

In the mess hall,Cyrus is given a new name.

The tall, yellow-eyed Quartermaster points at him. “Flavius.”

Each of his cohort—others who fought and slaughtered their way to survival in the tournament of souls—gets one of two names: Flavius, like him, or Marcus.

He leans toward his neighbor. “What’s your actual name?”

The other demon’s narrow gaze flickers up and down, taking Cyrus in. “Marcus,” he grunts.

Cyrus falls silent.

Something’s gone wrong with his transformation and he doesn’t know how to bring it up. He’s smaller than the rest of his cohort—instead of being tall or broad, he’s slender and short, with small claws and slim horns. His skin isn’t rough and dull, but silvery, gleaming with a strange softness. And there’s something else. Deep down, a strange new heat flickers in his soul. When he reaches out to it tentatively he’s filled with…warmth, and longing.

He doesn’t know what it means, but he’s afraid. If he’s not a normal demon, what is he? Do others like him exist?

Will he be allowed to stay in the Court?

Another possibility rears its ugly head, no matter how much Cyrus tries to deny it. Maybe…they’ve found out he’s an imposter. Maybe someone is about to drag him out of line and cut his throat for a laugh.

He grits his teeth.I won’t let it happen. I’m here to survive.

The Quartermaster strides back and forth in front of them, a whip dangling from his hand. His gaze flickers over them like they’re pieces of meat. “Right now, you’re each little more than a worm! You may have triumphed in the tournament of souls, but in my eyes you’re the lowest of the low. You’re fit for nothing but the most disgusting, brainless tasks in Hell. Your minds are porridge and your muscles are barely more than blades of grass. It’s my job to whip you into shape.”

He snaps his wrist as he sayswhiplike he’s about to crack the wicked-looking thing in question. Cyrus flinches.

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