Page 10 of Hell's Secret Omega

Truthfully, he didn’t expect Cyrianus to get in touch at all. Mezor has little use for a spy. It’s obvious this is another of the King’s games—though what game, exactly, Mezor doesn’t yet know. He assumed Cyrianus would realize the same.

He plucks the arrow out of the wood. Time to meet the lieutenant and see what he has to say.

He waits until nightfall.Drawing attention to his presence is the last thing he needs. The arrow leads him on a merry chase through the warren of the Court, until finally he’s standing in front of the door to the public feast hall.

Surely not.

It was always his job to bring meat to the table, so without him, the hall has almost certainly fallen into disuse. But that doesn’t mean no one will notice their presence.

The door is cracked open. He ducks under the frame and enters. The feast room is dark and empty, delicate starlight raising shadows from the shapes scattered across the hall. At the far end sits the King’s former throne, now stained with dried ichor where General Talos was murdered and displayed. Torchlight from the yard below picks out veins of gold that rise up the wall behind the throne. Few know it, but those threads are rooted through the stone of the mountain all the way to the Hellspring, feeding the King with its blessed—or cursed—waters while he sat and watched his demons feed themselves.

One of the shadows detaches from the wall.

“How did you get in?” Cyrianus says in disbelief.

Mezor raises a brow. “The door was open.”

“Yes—no—I mean,” Cyrianus stammers, “how did you get into the Court? I know all the secret passageways. None are fit for a brute like you.”

He can’t stop the chuckle that rumbles past his lips. “Do you? Well, I propose you know all but one. And it’s a perfect fit for abrute like me.”

Faint light reveals the scowl on Cyrianus’s pretty face. “That’s impossible. I’ve spent years finding every crack in the mountain.”

Mezor spreads his hands. “What did you expect when you summoned me, then?”

Cyrianus’s cheeks darken and his gaze flickers. “I hoped you wouldn’t show,” he mutters.

“Then you could tell the King you’d held up your end of the bargain?” Mezor takes a step toward Cyrianus, who shuffles back almost automatically.

Interesting.

He’s not afraid of Mezor—he made that clear. So why keep his distance? Revulsion, perhaps?

Some long-forgotten sense tells Mezor otherwise. He dearly wants to throw the little demon off balance, to see what happens when his ichor rises.

The flame of interest isn’t unfamiliar. He’s had lovers in the Court before. Majors and captains, demons with the hunger to ascend the ranks. Safely obsessed with themselves and their own mortality, all they cared about was Mezor’s proximity to power. It was nothing more than a meeting of flesh.

He never once took delight in making their cheeks darken and their eyes flash.

Annoyed at his own irrational desire, he tears his gaze away from Cyrianus.

“I’d expect a spy to pick a better meeting place than the most public hall in the Court,” he says, maybe more roughly than he needs to.

Cyrianus’s shoulders tighten and he—there’s no better word for it—bristles. But another tension runs underneath, a wariness that manifests in his silver gaze.

“It’s where I always met the King,” he mutters, face slowly darkening in annoyance. “No one comes here anymore.”

Mezor lets it go. “Tell me your news, then.”

Cyrianus pulls out a sheaf of paper. “It’s the supplies. Someone is stealing from the main store. I’ve been through the ledgers twice and confirmed it.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Mezor doesn’t take the papers.

“Well, I—” Cyrianus splutters as if that hadn’t occurred to him. His chin tilts mutinously. “The King told me to pass everything on to you! I overheard demons in the forge talking—they’re planning to leave the Court, and they’re furnishing themselves with the supplies to do it.”

“Good for them.” Mezor chuckles. The idea of demons marching out of the Court under their own power amuses him. “What does this have to do with me?

“Don’t you care?” Cyrianus demands.

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