Page 72 of Hell's Secret Omega

The door that materializes in front of him is a pathetic obstacle. With a roar, he sinks his claws into the flimsy wood and tears it off its hinges, tossing it aside, and it slams into the stone behind him. The grey yard materializes before his eyes and the scene makes his blood run cold.

In the center of the yard demons form a circle two fallen figures. Atop one figure perches a giant rok—a vicious Hellbeast with a wingspan the width of his cottage and an appetite to match. The rok rises from its prey with a screech, batting its wings and stirring up a forceful wind. Demons scatter. Mezor has an arrow drawn before he can think, following the rok’s path as he sights down the shaft. The rok stops rising and hovers. It’s going to dive.

He holds the bow steady. He has a clear shot. Yet something stops him.

The bird plummets like a stone. He breathes out.

“Don’t shoot!”

Cyrus’s voice freezes him. Mezor’s heart claws at his throat and his muscles obey his vergis’s command without thought. The rok’s wings come down in a powerful stroke as it banks, obscuring his shot. Then the massive bird lands in front of Cyrus, delicate as a feather coming to rest.

Slowly, Mezor lowers his bow. His arms tremble.

As soon as the rok settles, Cyrus strides across the yard. Mezor’s whole body pulses with shock. But when Cyrus is in front of him, he doesn’t fall into Mezor’s arms the way he half expects—instead he stops and hesitates, casting a quick glance around.

We’re not alone, his look says.

“You’re hurt,” Mezor rasps. Cyrus stinks of ichor, and there’s an ugly gash on his cheek.

Cyrus lifts his chin. His gaze is on fire. “I’m alive.”

Suddenly Mezor understands. These are Cyrus’s dubious allies, the remnants of the Grey Company. Much as Mezor wants to grab hold of him and carry him out of the Court, Cyrus must appear strong in front of them. Now he understands the looks and whispers that circle the yard—to these demons, Cyrus appears to have the King’s Hunter at his beck and call.

Slowly, he gets to one knee. “What happened?” he murmurs under his breath so only Cyrus can hear.

“Magnus happened,” Cyrus hisses, his eyes flashing.

Mezor’s hairs stand on end. That’s not the whole story—but it’s enough. He has a powerful urge to show those assembled why he was feared in the Court for so long.

“Tell me what you need,” he growls.

“Get up.” Cyrus’s fingers grip his chin, and Mezor’s heart beats fiercely. He climbs to his feet and Cyrus jerks his head. “Come with me.”

They pass the fallen body, crooked claws raised in hopeless self defense, the rest a gory mess. Mezor would gladly take a moment to revel in the sight, but Cyrus strides straight past, his shoulders stiff. A picture is beginning to form: by pitting Cyrus against his master, the Grey Company could kill two birds with one stone. Cyrus would prove himself or die trying, and they’d get rid of the Quartermaster either way, in challenge or after.

He’d like to tear them all limb from limb for it. He won’t.

Unless Cyrus asks.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Cyrus leads him to the bird. Where does the rok fit in?

“Your arm,” Cyrus prompts.

Mezor obeys as if he’s already under the thrall and holds out his left arm. He bites his tongue against a sharp warning as Cyrus reaches out to the rok—the deadliest Hellbeast in the realm, besides a full-grown serpent—and strokes its chest.

The bird is tame.

Cyrus whispers something to the bird and steps back. It leaps into the air, massive wings stirring the dust, and lands on his arm. Claws the length of his fingers encircle the muscle with utmost delicacy. It weighs little in spite of its size, but those talons make it as much a hunter as him.

The bird looks down at him with a golden eye.

“Cyrus,” Mezor murmurs, too quiet for the assembled demons to hear. “I’m taking you away from here.”

Cyrus nods jerkily. He walks ahead, keeping his head up. His exhaustion turns the bond sickly and heavy. But he only stumbles once. As they pass, a tall, broad-shouldered demon steps forward.

“Claudius,” Cyrus acknowledges him coolly.

Claudius’s gaze goes to Mezor, wary. “You’re going with the Hunter.”

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