Page 42 of Hell's Secret Omega

Mezor tastes its bitter fear on his tongue. Even if he frees the izil, the bog’s corruption will eat away at its blood and kill it soon.

You can’t save them all, he reminds himself.

He can’t turn away, either. As long as he’s a witness, he must act.

The izil fights him. Mezor holds it firm while he digs away at the muck. The creature is heavy with milk—a mother. When he pulls it free, it’s clear the creature has been trapped for a while. Its hooves are already pitted with corrosion. It darts from his grip the instant he lets go, and he watches the white streak disappear into the forest with a heavy heart.

Maybe it has a fawn out there. Maybe they’ll run together for a few more weeks.

When he arrives at the King’s hideout, he takes great pleasure in trailing poisonous bog water all over the pristine marble floors.

“You stink,” Branok growls, eyes flashing with annoyance.

Mezor ignores him. He goes straight to the table and places the new piece on the map—with bitter irony, it’s a piece of izil horn.

“A dozen. Is it enough yet?”

“I told you. We need all of them.”

He slumps into the chair. “Fine.”

Branok doesn’t inquire about his state, terminally incapable of expressing sympathy. He begins to pace, a habit Mezor hates. His bare claws gotic-tic-ticon the stone. “If you could only plant them faster?—”

“I cannot move any faster!” Mezor snarls. “I’ve told you. The gate is old and not meant for hard use. Its powers are already failing. If it stops working altogether, we will both be trapped as we are until I’ve traipsed around the rest of Hell on foot.”

Abandoning Cyrus for weeks at at time.The bond wouldn’t survive, and it’s possible neither would Cyrus. The bond grows stronger, but they need more time. More touch. More…

He sighs into his hands.

The King grunts.Tic-tic-tic. “You’re not letting that little brat distract you, I hope.”

Rage curls in Mezor’s belly.How dare he.“You and I have an agreement. That doesn’t mean I’m at your beck and call, to move around your board like a game piece. Nor is Lieutenant Cyrianus, for that matter.”

The King stops.

“I play the game because no one else dares set the board,” he says coldly. There’s an emptiness in his gaze, the same emptiness that’s unsettled Mezor since the first day. Like there’s something missing from his soul. “You owe me absolute fealty. So does he—just ask him. Or hasn’t he told you how I plucked him out of obscurity?”

Mezor’s hackles go up. So it’s like he thought—the King targeted Cyrus to be his spy on purpose. “I think you did it because you have a weakness for vergis. I watched what you did with that little vergis angel.”

“They make good pets,” the King sneers, but his eyes are shadowed.

Mezor lurches to his feet. Cold fire licks up his spine. “He’s not a pet.”

He’s taller than the King, stronger. A sudden image flashes through his mind: his hand around Branok’s throat, the King at his mercy.I could so easily do it.

The King only smirks as Mezor looms over him.

“Docile. Obedient. Temporary. Isn’t he all those things to you?” His tongue flickers across his lips, red as angel blood. “I smell your anger. But you’ll do nothing, as usual. You wouldn’t dare make a move against me. You need me.”

Mezor sucks back a breath of fury. The King’s eyes gleam. The shadow in them is deep and dangerous.

But he’s right.

“Someday you’ll play this game against the wrong person.”

“Work faster, Mezor. And remember what you’re working for.”

Few people are willing to pay the price Branok pays for his power. The game he plays is twisted and cruel, even to him. Mezor’s choice is between the brutal chaos that’s swallowed his world and the knife-point of an unpredictable madman—he could sweep the board clean and start again, but to what end?

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