Page 9 of Hell's Secret Omega

Cyrus twitches.

The Grey Company?

“A third,” the first demon scoffs. “So Leuther can divvy the rest up between his cronies and leave us to starve? The mountain patrol pledged allyship tous—we should at least get to enjoy the spoils they bring back.”

The second demon snorts. “Spoils, sure. I’d rather have gruel than bitter Hell-meat. It’s making us all sick.”

“Least we’ll have better meat when we make it to Earth,” the first grumbles.

Cyrus waits until they leave, then climbs down after them.

The Grey Company is a long-standing rumour bandied around the lower levels—he’d always thought the traitorous General Leuther was behind it. Hoarding food is an offence punishable by death. Leuther, like the King himself, wouldn’t hesitate to execute those who dared. But Cyrus is the one who counts the stores—surely he would have noticed food going missing.

Five or six demons attend the forge already and blacksmithing hammers ring loud against the boom of the bellows. Steam whines as the main forge hammer wakes. There’s no escape the way he came. He turns, heading to the backside of the forge.

Behind the forge, a massive pile of coal from backs onto the wall. Heat from the fire blasts out the back vents. Get too close, and he might burn. He grimaces. But soon someone will come to check the reservoir levels and find him standing like an idiot.

The pile is steep and slippery, rocks tumbling under his hands and feet. He scrambles across the slope, sure the crackle of the coal under his boots is obvious to anyone with ears.

No one comes, though.

Finally the slope bends down and deposits him on the other side. He hurries for the gate, cleaving to the shadows, and slips out before anyone spots him.

To his dismay, the heat and the sweat nearly melted away his scent blocker. In a shadowy spot, he stops to smear more on his neck and wrists, the smell making his stomach churn anxiously. His vergis is more agitated than usual, making it hard to focus as he rifles through the papers in the storerooms.

He’s always made copies of the ledgers out of habit—one for the Quartermaster, who reported the contents to the King. One for the Hollow King himself, to ensure the Quartermaster’s loyalty.

Not that it did the King much good in the end,Cyrus thinks darkly as he reshuffles the pages.

He reads them in reverse order, heart pounding as he quickly flips through them. Has the Grey Company stolen from the stores under his nose this whole time?

No. The discrepancy catches his eye. It’s around the time of the coup, before Leuther implemented rationing. Once Leuther shut the Hunter out from the Court, there were no fresh kills. Their permanent stores began to drain. Cyrus assumed the low numbers were because of the Hunter’s absence, as had the Quartermaster himself, evidently. Now that he’s looking, the difference is obvious.

Someone has been stealing food.

If the Grey Company is planning to march—an exodus from Hell—they need the supplies.

Normally a revelation like this would send him straight to the throne room to whisper in the King’s ear. But the King told him to report to Mezor.

His pulse kicks.

That means he has to see the Hunter alone.

Chapter 7

MEZOR

Mezor returnsfrom his third trip through the gate scattered and loose, like he’s not been put back together properly.

The gate is failing faster. He needs to let it rest or he’ll regret pushing so hard. He’s waited for so long, playing out his contract with Branok while Hell turned to dust around him, surely a little longer won’t kill him. Still, the thought makes him itch.

He’s not used to sitting around.

Even through the long years he served the King, he remainedthe Hunter—he walked far afield through Hell’s wilds, bringing back fifty-foot serpents for the King’s Court to feast on. He’d scouted for signs of anything but rot and decay in his beloved homeland. He’d scoured the ruins of long-ago civilizations that once lived side by side with his people, searching for anything that could reverse Hell’s corruption. Now he has little to occupy him except meditation and carving new arrows. Every act feels hollow.

Athunkjars him out of his thoughts, and he lets the world seeds scatter across the table as he stands. Opening the door, he finds a white arrow embedded in the wooden doorframe. Its fletching quivers.

It’s the arrow he gave Cyrianus, of course. A flicker of concern runs through him, and he scowls.Concern?The arrow just means the little demon wants to meet. Mezor’s instinct tells him toprotect, but it’s only that—instinct.

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