Page 73 of Hell's Secret Omega

“I have other duties to fulfil before I can join the march,” Cyrus says with unimaginable calm.

Duties to me,Mezor wants to snarl. He also wants to pin this demon to the stone wall and dig his claws in until he’s a gibbering mess.Allies, hah.There are no allies in this poisonous place. But he walks ahead, letting Cyrus pause to talk to the demon instead. He waits at the doorway with the rok sitting steady on his wrist, watching.

The demon’s gaze follows him.

“Duties to the King?”

“It’s not your business.” Cyrus tosses his head, such an arrogant little flick of his chin unless you know the fear it hides. “Magnus is dead. I don’t answer to you now—I’m your equal.”

Claudius blows out a sigh. “No, little demon, you’re much more than that. Your abilities are strange and powerful indeed if you have a rok and the Hunter at your beck and call. You’ll have a place in the procession if you decide to join us. Know that.”

The bond flickers with anger and Cyrus’s brow draws tight. “Well. Good.”

He turns away without another word and ushers Mezor into the dimly lit hall. As soon as they’re around the corner, Mezor finds himself with his arms full of vergis.

Cyrus’s face pushes hard into his chest and a single, horrible sob wracks his body. Mezor tries to hold him, but he gasps in pain. He pushes away.

“Let’s go,” he says, his face contorted with emotion. “Please, take me anywhere.”

Chapter 41

CYRUS

Mezor takeshim back to the grotto.

“Hold your breath.” He steps down into the water.

The rok stirs suddenly, head emerging from under its wing. Cyrus holds the torch high and looks down at the flooded entrance.

“What about Ekko?”

Of course he’s named the bird. “Roks don’t swim.”

Cyrus turns to the rok. “Mezor will carry you as he swims. You must hold your breath.”

“A bird can’t—” Mezor begins, but Cyrus’s look silences him.

Surely the bird can’t understand that.But the rok lets out a strange noise, a thrummingek-ek-ek.Its eye stays fixed on Cyrus. Mezor says nothing—now isn’t the time to ask—but he’s burning with curiosity. How is it that a fearsome Hellbeast obeys his little vergis like a tame pet?

“Let’s go,” Cyrus says, and Mezor takes the torch as he dives.

Cyrus cuts into the water without a splash. Mezor follows more slowly, holding the bird to his chest. The rok’s eye turns to him balefully—this one is black and glittering. He douses the torch, plunging them into darkness, then he sinks under.

It’s silent and black and he can’t see Cyrus at all, but the bond tugs him onward. Mezor follows the current down. Slowly, light rises all around them as the grotto’s luminescent mosses begin to glow in greeting, the way they’ve done for Cyrus since the first day, and Cyrus’s shape resolves ahead. His heart beats a driving rhythm:out, out.

Cyrus’s eyes are open, watching the grotto pass beneath them. His sadness tinges the bond, but Mezor can’t find it in himself to feel the same. He said farewell to the place the moment the cottage fell down around them. Strangely, there’s no sense of loss. He lived alone in the grotto for a century. Cyrus was the one who brought light to the place, filled it with life after so long when Mezor was only subsisting.

Past the cottage, Mezor leads Cyrus to the gate. Cyrus takes his arm and their atoms are squeezed into the void.

This time, the moment lasts forever. A lifetime flashes before his eyes and fades to nothingness. Everything is empty. Then everything is light. The gate struggles to pull them through, its energy nearly gone. He’s falling back into the world, the bond pulled taut like a bowstring, shivering with fear and need and hunger. Claws dig into his arm and the rok bursts free with a screech. Cyrus tumbles into him. Mezor barely catches Cyrus in his arms. Behind them, the gate flares as bright as a star. Then it goes dark, and the markings on Mezor’s chest go dark with it for the very last time.

Cyrus wrenches out of Mezor’s grip and falls to his knees. He collapses in a small heap and lets out a brittle howl, a sound that chills Mezor’s heart.

“I hate it. I hate this place. It makes me sick!”

Mezor kneels beside him. “I know.”

Cyrus crawls into his lap, and Mezor wraps his arms around his fierce, broken vergis as he trembles and sobs. Carefully, Mezor unclips the leather breastplate and tugs it free, tossing itaside. His stomach clenches when he sees the mess on Cyrus’s back. A fresh wave of rage sweeps through him.

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