Page 2 of Hell's Secret Omega

“You!” the yellow-eyed demon growls, flicking his finger at Cyrus. “You’ll go to the stores. Fetching and carrying is all you look good for. You—” He moves on to Cyrus’s neighbor, “—training grounds.”

“I want to train too,” Cyrus blurts as the Quartermaster turns to the next in the line. “I want to be a soldier.”

This time the whip does crack. The long tongue lashes Cyrus’s bare chest, making him choke. The pain is dizzying. He gapes at the wound that opens up across his flesh.

“The first rule of the Court is obedience toward your betters!” the Quartermaster sneers, his glare sweeping the line. “The second rule is the law of the challenge. Power is gained by tooth and claw. Best any demon in single combat and you can take his place, whether he’s a soldier, a captain, or a general. You can even challenge me.” He opens his long, ropy arms. “I’ll gladly rip you to pieces.”

Cyrus clutches his burning chest and tries to swallow his whimpers.Power. As he shuffles through the stone doorway into the barracks, he bites down on his tongue until he tastes bitterness. He doesn’t want the kind of power that comes from killing someone. Maybe it’s better he’s not a soldier.

He couldn’t kill anyone in the tournament of souls, either. Does that make him defective? He turned tail like a weakling the instant he came face to face with his first opponent. While others slaughtered their way through each level, he survived the tournament by watching and waiting. He was clever. Quick. Silent. When each level opened, Cyrus was at the gate to dart through first and find a new hiding spot.

He’s not strong at all—he’s a coward. The Hellspring was supposed togivehim power regardless. At least, that’s what he believed.

In the dark of the barracks he shivers and clutches his knees. Demons from around the Court spill in, filling the spacewith raucous laughter and snarls and jibes. His secrets seem to cloak him in shadows, muffling the strangeness of this new world and numbing the pain in his chest. He vows to keep his strange body hidden. To never reveal his cowardice. He’ll absorb every bit of knowledge about the Court he can, unveil its every mystery. Then he’ll find a way back to the Hellspring to fix his transformation.

Chapter 2

CYRUS

Cyrus wedgeshimself into the crack and wriggles. The stone almost seems to give around him, but it’s only his unique talent for squirming into small spaces. The body he so hated at first is perfectly suited to squeeze through cracks, and the rest is mind over matter. The trick is not to get scared halfway through.

He expels the last gasp of air from his lungs and slides inch by excruciating inch between the two rock faces. Another demon might have shut his eyes. Cyrus’s eyes are wide open, the rocky surface staring back at him. Faint light from the hall to his left illuminates flickers of crystal, sharp as knives and a mere hairsbreadth from his nose.

He inches sideways. The hem of his coat pulls, catching on an outcropping. This would be easier in less clothing, but stripping down poses more danger than getting stuck in a crack. At least if he gets stuck, a soul-sucking hollow will probably happen upon him and his end will be swift. Being caught without his coat means one less layer between the cruel Court and his distinctly…un-demonicdifferences. A soft, slim chest and narrow shoulders. Slender limbs that refuse to put on muscle, no matter how many bags of grain he carries.

Defective.

He pushes the last air from his lungs. At last he pops free of the crack, spat into the dark tunnel.

All that is about to change.

He’s had this form for so long it’s painfully familiar to him, from the tips of his clawed feet to the taper of his shining horns, but soon he’ll be rid of it. He touches his pouch briefly, paranoia making him compulsive. Inside are the artifacts the King ordered him to retrieve—his final task.

In the many years since Cyrus first entered the Court, the Hollow King reaped hundreds more souls from the tournament to grow his demon army and fight his war on Earth. But a few months ago, Hell’s generals conspired to stage a coup. Tired of war without end, the generals withdrew their troops from the battlegrounds and killed the Hollow King’s right hand demon, sending the King himself fleeing into exile. Cyrus feared the worst. His position as the King’s spy could have gotten him killed if they discovered it, alongside everything else about his nature he’s kept hidden over the years. His chance to enter the Hellspring seemed to vanish in front of his eyes—not to mention his odds of survival.

But the King still controls the Hellspring, even now. Cyrus won’t have to guard himself for much longer. Once he passes on the artifacts, the King will grant him leave to enter the Hellspring again, and he’ll be given a new body—a better one.

His secrets will die in those icy waters.

The tunnel is long and sloping, and eventually Cyrus starts to head downhill, gravel slipping under his feet. He walks more carefully, holding onto the wall and curbing his impatience. Rushing leads to mistakes. He doesn’t need to spill ichor in here and draw the hollows, or worse, damage his precious cargo.

Down, down, the tunnel goes. Below the lower levels. Below the forge. Under the tournament of souls itself—closed now, its labyrinthine levels empty. He never imagined leaving the Court’swalls once he entered. For many years it’s been home—a cold and cruel home, perhaps, but better than the desolate pit of Hell, where his soul would have quickly faded to nothing. But everything has changed now. He lives on a knife-edge. He must hang onto the King’s favor with all the strength in his claws.

Deep inside the earth, the tunnel is pitch black, and he finds his way by feel. His step quickens as the slope evens out. Once, he would have been apprehensive about such a meeting. Today he practically vibrates with anticipation. He’s served the King since his first year in the Court. He’s the King’s most loyal and long-lasting spy—and the best. His latest triumph sits in the pouch at his waist.

Surely the King will agree he’s fulfilled his side of the bargain.

Light heralds the end of the tunnel. The torch posted at the exit tells him the King is expecting him. Cyrus passed along a message through one of the hollows, but it’s hard to say how much of his messages get translated—if any. The hollows are strange creatures. Emerging into the hall, he senses their presence. The air has a chill and their hunger tugs at his soul. He pulls his coat tighter, then lets go as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. He mustn’t show fear. Not to the hollows. Not to the King.

Fear is weakness. And weakness can get him killed.

The King’s scent overwhelms him as soon as he steps into the hideout. As always, it makes him physically itch. The first time he was summoned to the King’s presence and that scent washed over him, he’d been terrified. But the bargain that followed saved his life.

Spy for me, and I will give you the body you want.

For years he’s used his natural abilities to do exactly that—hiding, sneaking, listening. To demons they’re despicable skills, but they’ve served him well over the years.

This time, a second scent lurks beneath the King’s bitter ash. Cyrus shuts the door behind him and lights torches around theroom, banishing the hollows to lurk in the shadowy corners. The new scent pricks at his memory. He strikes the flint and the torch flares. The faint smell of smoke lingers. Beneath it, ozone, like the portent of a storm.

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