Page 3 of Hell's Secret Omega

Why is that scent familiar?

A heartbeat later, the King sweeps through the door. A second figure follows, ducking under the lintel to enter. His broad horns barely fit through the doorframe. His skin is red as a flame. Cyrus stiffens, all his senses coming to a point.

It’shisscent—the Hunter.

Mezor.

The one who makes Cyrus’s skin go tight with fear. The one who always looks at him.

No—watches him.

Before the coup, Cyrus only ever saw the Hunter in passing as he dragged his bounty to the feast table. They never met. Cyrus was glad. The biggest demons were always the most dangerous, the cruelest, and the Hunter was biggest of all. He knew the rumors—that the Hunter wasn’t actually a demon. That he was a shepherd god, a creature of Hell from before the cataclysm.

True or not, Cyrus only cared about protecting himself.

Now that the King is in exile, the Hunter is often at his side. Cyrus can’t avoid meeting him. And he’s just as bad as Cyrus would’ve expected. So arrogant he barely deigns to speak to Cyrus, who he’s obviously deemed his lesser.

The Hunter watches him, and Cyrus hates it.

Sure enough, those deep red eyes turn to him as soon as Mezor enters the room. Cyrus suppresses a shudder. In contrast, the King glances at him and flicks his gaze away in dismissal, which irks him for different reasons.

“Lieutenant Cyrianus. Bring me good news.”

The King seats himself at the long table that occupies most of the room and gestures for the Hunter to sit at his right. Cyrus resolutely tries to ignore the big demon.

“Your Majesty.” He bows. “I recovered the seeds.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out the cloth bag that cradles his cargo. The objects inside ring against each other gently as he puts the package on the table.

A smirk twists across Mezor’s deep-set features. “You’ve put the world seeds in a burlap sack? Astonishing.”

Cyrus’s face heats. He turns pointedly toward the King, giving the Hunter his shoulder. “I’ve done as you commanded.”

Expressionless, the King waves a hand at Mezor. “I want to see them.”

Mezor pushes the bag toward the King, but he shakes his head sharply.

“No. You do it.”

Cyrus grits his teeth as Mezor fishes in the bag and pulls out what looks like a simple glass ball, innocuous but for its inner light.

“Curious,” the Hunter rumbles, holding it up. The torchlight reflects back threefold, making it glow brighter.

At last the King’s lip twitches, curling back to show his deadly fangs. “The hollows are drawn to it.”

The shadows at the edge of the torchlight reach toward the center of the room. A chill sweeps through Cyrus, and he clenches his fists in his coat. The hollows won’t enter the torchlight. Not unless the King wants them to.

Mezor furrows his brow. He puts the glass sphere back in the bag and it rings faintly. “You torment them with things from their old life. And look at your little spy—he’s afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” His spine snaps straight. “I have something of yours, too. You should be more careful with your things.”

He sticks an arm inside his coat again and takes out the arrow he’s been carrying, bone-white and as long as his arm, and drops it to the table with a clatter.

He took it from the guardhouse where Captain Romanos and his little angel holed up after the coup. It was a token of the King’s alliance to Romanos and it irritated Cyrus. Why would the King want an ally in that brute? He was a better, more loyal spy. He’d taken the arrow to make a statement to both Mezor and the King—I’m not someone to ignore.Now, as Mezor’s brow arches and his gaze flickers from the arrow to Cyrus’s face, assessing, Cyrus regrets his rash decision. As usual.

A guttural chuckle erupts from the King, drawing his attention away. “Beware, Mezor. Best not make an enemy of my lieutenant. You will soon work closely, after all.”

“What?” Cyrus blurts, his stomach sinking. “But my task is done. I’ve served you faithfully—I want my side of the bargain!”

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